


God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman

by carryonstarkid



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-10 11:28:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 20,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12910989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid
Summary: A Thunderbirds themed advent calendar leading up to Christmas





	1. O Come, O Come Emmanuel

It starts with the slam of a door.

It starts with the slam, but the youngest has gotten a little older and the oldest has gotten a little too old, so it doesn’t end there.  The youngest opens it and barges into the oldest’s room.  He’s red in the face, spitting flame when he speaks, and soon he’s not the only one.  Both of them scream and shout until the youngest gets cocky and the oldest gets cruel.  Neither of them is all that sure what they’re yelling about.  Neither of them is all that sure they care.

Because it’s Christmas Eve, and it’s not Christmas Eve unless Tracy Island has descended into all-out tyranny.

So maybe the youngest drinks too much.  Maybe the oldest drinks too little.  Maybe those in between do nothing to help, because inevitability is the only surefire way to thwart intervention.  Whatever the case, it’s clockwork, ticking away all year long until winter sets in, and night chills the air, and someone says something that heats everything up.

It’s usually the youngest, but the oldest is not without fault.

So they let it all go, for one night and one night only, placing blame here and stabbing guilt there.  Each year, the others vow to stay out of it, but each year they fail, taking sides, as family does, because hell—maybe none of them have had enough to drink and maybe Christmas Eve is harder than it should be.

It ends with the youngest as he storms out towards his stars.  It ends with the oldest, wishing he hadn’t said what he had.  It ends with the two of them, soft-spoken and apologetic, as they share a blanket and lounge across the lawn, both of them looking up at the sky and neither of them looking up at the stars.

“I miss them,” the oldest says.

“I can’t,” says the youngest.

And that’s all that needs to be said.  That’s all that  _can_ be said.  Because tyranny on Tracy Island doesn’t end with a mother’s touch or a father’s booming voice.  There’s no one there to stop it—no one there to save them from themselves.  It starts with a slammed door, but it ends with them.  It always ends with them.


	2. The First Noel

The very first time she meets him, it’s Christmas Eve at Creighton-Ward Manor.  Her mother still hides the Christmas candies on a shelf that’s too tall and her father still has to help her put the star on the top of the tree.  She’s almost certainly meant to be in bed at this hour, but she’s beginning to learn the values of being where she’s not supposed to, and tonight is no exception.

On the louder, snowier nights the wind will sometimes blow branches into the windows.  She knows this because little Penelope Creighton-Ward takes careful note of the things that scare her and tries very hard to keep that from being the case.

This particular noise, she knows, is not the one that scares her. This sound is bigger, rounder—a steady  _knock, knock, knock_  against wood.  She cranes her neck around the banister, as well as the garland that lines it, and glares at the grand door that leads directly to the storm, not knowing that this noise is, in fact, far scarier than those dreaded branches.

She shuffles across deep, dark hardwood in socks that slip and slide.  When she opens the door, snowflakes shake themselves free of the wreath and a winter chill enters the manor.  Only then does she begin to realize that this might be one of those things she was not supposed to do.

The man is taller than her, but then again, most people are.  His boots are home to a collection of worn-out patches and one of his shoelaces frays at the end.  He leans on a cane, grey and crooked, and his hand is pressed firm against his jacket.  When Penelope looks all the way up, she’s met with the largest nose that any little girl ever did see.

She mistakes the man’s laugh for gentle, when really it’s weak.  She mistakes his smile for kind, when really it’s broken.  He looks back down at her like maybe he had expected someone bigger, someone older—someone who doesn’t need to stand on their tiptoes just to unlock the door.  “Lookit you, little lamb,” he says.  “Is your father home?”

Before she can answer she hears another voice, deep and familiar, and suddenly the whole world seems scary again because she’s sure her father’s just seen a ghost.  “Parker?”

“Hugh,” says the gentleman with the cane.  “Bless you—a little girl?”

He leans in the doorway, another one of those gentle, sleepy laughs fumbling through his lips.  “Come inside,” says her father, and it’s a voice Penelope knows well.  It shows up whenever she’s about to jump from the banister, swing from the chandelier, cause mischief—or more accurately, cause herself  _harm_.  “Parker, come inside.”

The gentleman doesn’t get a chance to cause mischief, though, because soon his cane starts to shake and soon he begins to fall.  Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Penelope is glad that her father is here to save the day.

The gentleman looks much smaller next to her father.  His eyes fall closed and Penelope takes a moment to wonder how tired someone must be to fall asleep while standing, snow still dusted in dark hair.  Her father takes an arm and tugs it over his own shoulders, scooping the gentleman up from his chest.  “Go to bed,” he tells her.

“But—”

“ _Bed_ , Penelope.”

* * *

The very first time they spend Christmas together, it’s the day after Penelope opens the door.  Santa had come, leaving behind the finest gifts, as always.  She had spent the entire day with friends she doesn’t know and family she knows even less, showing off her favorite new toys to all who will listen.

But it is hard to find someone who will listen.

That is precisely the problem with these parties.  The women wear dresses, the men wear ties, and little Penelope gets lost somewhere among the silk and the sequins.  It is immensely boring and, therefore, the worst kind of torture that a little girl can be put through, because even though she wears a pretty dress and her mother has given her pretty hair, no one is interested in the things she has to say.

This is usually about the time curiosity takes over.  And with curiosity, come the places she’s not supposed to be.  

The manor has more guest rooms than Penelope knows how to count, and yet she remembers exactly the one in which the mysterious gentleman resides.  She had been told, ever so urgently, that she was not to speak of their guest—that it was considered rude and ungracious, and that rude and ungracious are both very bad things to be.

So she had complied.  She had been exceedingly good for an exceedingly long period of time, so surely she had earned a broken rule or two.  She would not speak of the guest, but she’d certainly speak  _to_ the guest, because maybe  _he_ would listen.

She peeks through the door, then slips through the crack.  She tries her best to be her quietest, but when the door clicks shut behind her, the gentleman turns his head.

He looks warmer than he did the night before, no longer covered in snow. The golden light of the fireplace seems to help, but he still looks quite thin and ghostly, pinned to the bed with blankets of red and gold.  His smile, it would seem, is the only truly warm thing about him.  “You’re not supposed to be ‘ere.”

“I’m not supposed to be lots of places,” she tells him.

This earns a laugh, and Penelope beams.  “What’s your name?” he asks.

She eyes him for a moment, because she’s been told never to give away her name to strangers, but this man is sleeping under her roof, under her blankets, so how much of a stranger can he really be?  “Penelope,” she says.  “What’s yours?”

He takes a moment too, as if  _she’s_ the stranger and he has cause to worry.  “Parker,” he says.  “You can call me Parker.”

“That’s a silly name,” she says, wandering closer and closer, cautious and curious at the same time.

“So’s Penelope,” he says.

“Is not.”

“Is too—you ever ‘eard of anyone else named Penelope?”

She nods, quick and defensive.  “Plenty of girls on my books are named Penelope.”

“Books, eh?” he says, nearly impressed.  “That’s very lucky.  I don’t read so good meself.”

“ _I_ can read chapter books,” she tells him.  

“Smart girl, then,” he says.  “Too smart to be wandering places you shouldn’t.  What are you doing here?”

“What are  _you_ doing here?”

And then there’s another smile, the biggest of them yet, because maybe little Penelope is even smarter than he’d originally thought.  “I’m quite sick,” he tells her.  “I needed someplace where I knew people would ‘elp me, so I came here.”

With news of his health, Penelope stops her inching closer, but she’s not quite put-off enough to back away.  “Why don’t you just go to the doctor?” she asks.  “That’s what I do when I’m sick.”

“The doctors don’t like me much,” he says.

And with this, a whole new fear.  “Do the doctors like  _me_?”

He chuckles, and she figures he sounds a little like Santa Claus, except without all the cookies.  “They most certainly do,” he assures her.  “Not a soul alive who could resist liking you, Miss Penelope.”

* * *

The very first time they have dinner together, it’s exactly one week after the Christmas party.  They sit as they usually do, at a table that’s too big, father at the head, mother and daughter by his side.

And then there’s Parker.

She’s taken quite a liking to the man, that little Penelope Creighton-Ward.  Her mother says that she’s always enjoyed talking with strangers.  Her father says that she’s always enjoyed getting into trouble, but neither of these things are the truth.  Not entirely.  You see, it’s the books that have her so interested.

Every night, when the branch swings into her window and starts scratching at the glass, she toddles towards her books, yanks one off the shelf, and sleuths her way down the hall into the room made of red and gold.  From there she sinks into the chair in the corner—big and plump, meant more for her father than for her—and she reads.  Some nights Parker feels good.  Some nights he feels bad.  But he always listens as she reads.  Always.

She had been told that it was rude.  That Parker didn’t want to be bothered.  She had been told that she was to stop, which had been met with a brisk but powerful, “I shan’t,” and the stomp of a slippered foot.  No one had argued with her after that.  No one ever does.

They’ve read three books this week, the most notable of which being  _A Christmas Carol_ , which neither of them had read before.  Some of the words had been hard, but he had been patient, and together they had figured them out.  Eventually one would fall asleep, then the other, and Penelope would wake up in her bed the morning after.

This is the first time she’s seen him outside of that room, aside from, of course, that very first night.  He looks better now than he had then, his smile wider, his laugh stronger.  As they say grace, he catches her peeking, only because he does the same, and the two of them giggle as quietly as the possibly can, as Penelope had already warned him about what mothers do to people who peek during grace.  

Needless to say, Parker had heeded her warning and taken it to heart.  

It’s a lovely dinner, as it always is—a feast of the New Year.  She shows him how to feed mother’s casserole to the dog without being caught and he promises to show her how to launch an olive from a spoon when no one is looking.  The pair simply don’t stop getting along until her father sets his knife and fork against porcelain.  “Penelope,” he says.

She looks up, certain that she is about to be scolded for whichever brand of trouble she’s been caught doing today, but when her father folds his hands in his lap, she comes to the conclusion that there will be no pointed fingers this evening.  “Parker will be staying with us for a little while,” he says.

She turns to look at Parker, like maybe she should trust his word over her family’s.  He throws attention back to her father, telling her to listen, and listen good, so she does as she’s told.  “He will drive you to and from school,” her father continues.  “For a short time.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but Penelope.”  This is her father’s Serious Voice, she doesn’t make another peep.  “You are not to discuss this arrangement with anyone—not your teachers.  Not your friends.”

“Why?” because there’s that curiosity again, unrelenting.  She turns to Parker for the answer, but when it doesn’t come, she presses on.  “Are you a ghost, like Dickens said?  Is that why no one can see you?”

Parker looks at her father.  Her father looks back at him.  Her mother, however, is the one who answers.  “Yes,” she says.  “That’s exactly it, Penelope.”

“Which one?” she wonders.

“What?” her mother says.

She turns to Parker now, because her mother has obviously stopped listening.  “Which ghost are you—past, present, or future?”

There’s one last smile.  The one that never quite seems to go away.  “That,” Parker says, “is h’an excellent question, m’lady.”


	3. Do You Hear What I Hear?

As the official communications specialist for International Rescue, John Tracy hears voices.  So many voices—day in, day out, and every moment in which it feels like days no longer  _apply_.  He hears families in mudslides, researchers in seaquakes, and workers who can no longer feel their own two legs.  He hears mothers cry for their children, hears husbands cry for their wives, and when he listens very closely, he can hear the cries that aren’t meant to be heard—cries that are doomed from the start, because they are not within his  _jurisdiction_.

This time of the year is the worst, or at least, it feels like it.  It’s the time of year when everyone feels like  _sharing_.  Sharing details, sharing heartache, sharing much more information than John actually needs to know.  It annoys him, to some extent, because every “I’ve got to make it home this year” or “My daughter needs me there for Christmas” is just one more part of the equation that John doesn’t  _need_.  It’s the sort of thing that has too much of an effect on him and not enough of an effect on whether or not he takes the rescue.

He’s been told it makes him robotic, sorting through all those voices, but John knows for a fact that there are far worse things to be.  There’s no harm in being efficient, in being calculating—in maximizing the number of lives saved by considering time, resources, and an inability to save everyone. Maybe it’s robotic, but it’s also necessary, because the whole point is that John’s the only one who has to hear the voices.

And John hears a lot of voices.

Although, there are a few voices he likes.  A relieved mother.  A breathing child.  These voices make the job worth it—make it seems like he’s doing something right, unlike the ones in his head that insist he’s wrong.

Then there are his favorite voices—the ones he listens for at the end of every rescue and after every close call.  The ones he needs to hear, the ones he will call for, over and over, until he gets a response.  Or worse, until he doesn’t.  They’re the voices that have remained a constant, unchanging variable, and they need to  _stay_ that way if any of John’s equations are expected to work.

Alan.  Alan’s got a great voice.  He’s all youth and optimism, bright as the stars he spends his nights watching.  His voice shines, leading the way to the end of every mission.  He still thinks that they can save everyone, which he’ll grow out of eventually, but for now, it’s the kind of hope that the team needs.  The kind of hope that gets John through all the voices.

But of course, there’s Gordon, who plays no small part.  His waves splash against John’s stubborn shores, head-on, wearing him down little by little. Gordon’s voice is strong and bold whenever he’s got John’s ear, preaching about personhood, singing his same old song that keeps John from total detachment.  It keeps them steady.  Keeps them kind.  Every team needs a Gordon, perhaps John’s team most of all.

Virgil is a crucial voice, knowledgeable and patient.  He’s made up of grand, study stone, but his voice remains warm and golden.  He exists in a permanent state of serving, of mediating, of protecting—necessary in a line of work such as theirs and far more necessary when that line of work so frequently involves gambling on the lives of family.  There are too many reasons why John likes Virgil’s voice, but perhaps the most important one is that hearing Virgil’s voice means that the team is safe.

His kid brothers have some of his favorite voices, there’s no doubt there.  His older brother, however, may just beat them all out.  Scott starts his day off as a king—as the leader of troops, commanding his squadron.  He flies through the day, in control, in power, hoping that he can provide good, and provide it generously.  Scott would grant peace to each and every person in the world if he could, and that kind of stubborn heart reminds the team why they do this in the first place.

Except Scott’s got two voices.

It’s the second one John likes more, slipping through only after a long day.  It’s usually after a successful rescue—after big brother watches little brothers run the show.  This time of year, it comes with two cups of hot cocoa, one in Scott’s hand on Tracy Island, the other with John up on Thunderbird Five.  It comes after everyone else has gone to bed and it’s just the two of them.  Scott swears that it’s  _them—_ that the younger three are the ones who are going to save this world.  Alan, the shining star.  Gordon, the strong sea.  Then Virgil, watching over the world from the pilot’s seat of his great green Thunderbird.

John Tracy hears a lot of voices, but this one?  Well.  This voice is the one that keeps him human.


	4. Go Tell It on the Mountain

It boils up to the surface, starting with the core things—stomach, chest, mind—until everything gets hotter and hotter.  It’s raw and wrong, blisters of anxiety bursting through blood, sweat, and skin because one thing’s for certain: when you’re the one who saves people, you’d better be damn sure you never need saving.

It’s been building for a while, this horrible burn of his.  Sometimes he thinks that maybe it’s just burning all the time, but Virgil is strong and calloused and usually forgets to feel it.  Usually.  

But everyone has their days.

“No, Gordon,” he says, because when things like this happen, Gordon talks and he doesn’t stop talking.  His voice becomes a drone in Virgil’s ear, on and on and on, because Two’s down and they’re at the top of the world and everything feels like it’s  _burning_.  “I said  _no_.”

Gordon goes on—of course he does, because it’s Gordon. He always goes on, thinking through problems, talking everything out, reporting back to Five even though Five hung up on him about twenty minutes ago.  That’s not Gordon’s fault, Virgil knows.  It’s just how he thinks, how he  _does_  things, but it’s getting harder to keep the boil from bubbling over when all Gordon does is—

“Jesus  _Christ_ , Gordon.   _Shut. Up_.”

The regret comes as soon as Gordon’s words fade, but it doesn’t outweigh the relief—not quite.  Sometimes it feels like everything his kid brother says just adds to the nonsense of the world, building up this cloud of words that don’t mean anything.  It’s useless rambling.  They’ve called John.  Scott’s coming.  There’s no problem to be solved, here.  It’s just the two of them at the top of a mountain, in the middle of a Russian winter.

The night before Christmas Eve.

Not that it matters.  They’ll be working on Christmas Eve—Christmas, too.  No eggnog, because they never know when they’ll need to go out.  No presents under the tree, because no one’s had the time to put any thought into it.  The most they’ll get is Christmas music, fuzzy and broken as it struggles to squeeze through the shaky speakers of their ‘birds—except it can’t be too loud because they still need to be able to hear John.

When Virgil stands, he doesn’t know where he’s going.  He just knows that he has to get  _out_  of Two.  He needs to cool off.  Foot of snow or not, he’s leaving, and he’s going to breathe in this frigid, too-thin mountain air, even if it kills him.

At least then he won’t need to be saved anymore.

His boots crunch against snow, the way they were meant to crunch against everything, and Virgil leaves behind a track of frozen footprints, each one deeper than the last.  The snow slices at his skin, burns his nose the longer he stays out.  As he looks out across miles of mountain range, he debates what would happen if he just kept walking.  Surely he would find light  _somewhere,_ trekking across the world, city after city, desert after desert, ocean after goddamn ocean.  He knows that the world isn’t  _all_ dark, but that’s what it feels like when he looks out across nothing but snow and sky and a blurred horizon.

He hears the footsteps before he sees them, clumsy snaps of ice without any weight behind them.  Gordon appears in the corner of Virgil’s vision, and to his credit, he knows Virgil well enough that he doesn’t talk this time around.  Only problem is that the silence brings guilt, and with the guilt comes more of that blistering flame.  “Sorry I yelled at you,” Virgil tells him.

“Nah,” Gordon says.  “You’re not.  But it’s cool.”

“Are you warm enough?” Virgil asks.

“Deep sea diver,” Gordon tells him, throwing a thumb at himself.  “I spend entire days below the surface.  My suit is watertight and equipped for sub-thermal depths.”

“Good.”

The wind howls.  The boys are silent.  Virgil’s boots feel wet, heavy, and he can’t help thinking that if the snow weren’t so deep and he wasn’t so sore, he’d just walk.  He’d just take off, trying to find  _some_ kind of light, but there’s something he can’t quite forget.  No matter how far he walks forward, no matter how long he travels, a straight line will bring him right back here, in this same spot, desperately needing a rescue.

“You know what I do, all those days below the surface?” Gordon asks.

Virgil doesn’t respond.  Gordon doesn’t get the hint, or if he does, he ignores it.  “I scream,” he says.

“You do not,” Virgil says.

“Do too,” says Gordon.  “When I’m on patrol.  I turn off my comms and I just…  _scream_.  So loud—louder than I think I can.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Hand to god,” Gordon says, smiling now.  “See, watch.”

It’s a deep, strained breath of thin air and Virgil’s pretty sure that Gordon’s going to make himself pass out, but then it comes.  For a moment Virgil thinks that there must be something inside of Gordon, bigger and bolder than he looks, because this scream can only come from someplace deep and dark and tired.  It echoes against the absence of light, bounces off the snow and the Earth and the time of day.  Yeah, Gordon  _does_ scream.  And he means it.

“Impressive,” Virgil deadpans.

“Try it,” Gordon says.

“Absolutely not.”

“C’mon.”

“Nope.”

“It’s easy.  Sometimes you can put words in there, too,” he says, and this time there’s no warning before he lets out a, “ _Virgil’s being an ass._ ”

There’s a roll of the eyes on Virgil’s end, a bright grin from Gordon.  “Really?” says the older, wiser, more  _mature_  brother.  “That’s the game you’re gonna play?”

“ _Virgil’s the grumpiest person on the face of the planet.”_

A sigh, then a grudging, “ _Gordon’s the_ stupidest _person on the face of the planet.”_

 _“_ Pathetic,” Gordon tells him.  “It doesn’t work unless you mean it.”

“We can’t all be loudmouths,” Virgil teases.  “Some of us are just quieter than others—y’know,  _quiet_?  Opposite of loud, maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“ _Virgil’s a killjoy._ ”

“ _Gordon needs to chill out.”_

_“Virgil’s just mad because he broke his plane.”  
_

_“Gordon was supposed to be piloting.”  
_

_“That’s kinda hard to do when the pilot doesn’t give me control.”  
_

_“This sucks.”  
_

_“Yeah it does.”  
_

_“I don’t want to do this anymore_.”  And then the mountains are quiet and dark and Virgil feels heavy again.  Maybe it’s the yelling, or maybe it’s the mountain, but his head is spinning and the darkness comes in spots now.  As he falls into snow, desperate to sit down, his own voice is thrown back at him.  It feels good to hear himself say it—so good that he does it again.  “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Gordon falls, purposefully and lazily, spreading his arms as he goes down until he lands with a crunchy  _flumph._ By the time he speaks again, he’s well on his way to making the world’s worst snow angel.  “Yeah,” he sighs.  “That’s usually what I end up yelling, too.”


	5. O Holy Night

John’s mug doesn’t shatter.

They all have their favorite mugs—Alan and Gordon, with the sky and the sea, respectively.  Virgil, the twist and twirls of Van Gogh.  Scott favors a mug that had long ago been their father’s, but has since been commandeered and used so many times over that the  _Harvard University_  has been worn down to just the  _Un_.

And then there’s John’s mug.  John’s one-hundred-and-fifty-nine dollars of stainless steel, vacuum tight, NASA-approved mug.  No spills.  No gravity required, and when gravity isn’t required, it’s almost certain that Thunderbird Five will be operating without.

So no, John’s mug doesn’t shatter and no, there is no sound of splitting glass on that horrible night when Thunderbird Five falls silent.

There are many things John likes about leading his father on a mission.  For one thing, it’s not any of his brothers, who bite back and snarl like dogs at the end of their leashes, as if John’s some sort of holographic mailman with too much to say.  For another, Dad’s a bit more independent than the others and although John loves his job, needs his job,  _thrives_ off of his job, even he needs a break every now and again.

So when Dad hits the South Pacific, John lets him go—takes a moment to breathe, to stretch, to float towards the kitchen and grab a hot cocoa, complete with peppermint, an early holiday gift from the Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward herself.

But perhaps the best thing about Five is that it requires a near-constant state of  _work_ , so John seals the lid to his mug and glides his way back to the globe.  “How’s it looking down there?” he asks his father.

There’s a chuckle over the line, sticky and buzzed.  “I don’t see any signs of foul play,” he says.  “I’ll take another look, but it seems like that charter went down on its own accord.  I’ll tell ya what, though.  We’re going to have to bring Gordon down here one day.  The kid’ll—”

This is when the silence falls and it’s really quite odd, because Thunderbird Five is never truly silent.  John has to take a moment just to check his surroundings—red and green still line the walls, his wreath of ornaments floats away from its assigned spot on the wall, just like always.  There’s cards from Alan, sent up every day, each depicting a different version of Santa holding up the number of days left until Christmas Eve.  The stars are brightly shining, it is a night like any other, except for that silence.  That silence brings John back to his Sunday best, when everyone would bow their heads and pray.  “Dad?”

This is about the time John’s mug is supposed to shatter.

And yet it doesn’t, so the silence continues on and the distinct disconnect between what’s  _supposed_  to happen and what  _really is happening_ seems too wide for any boy to fathom. Thunderbird Five is no longer manned by a space communicator and is instead being run by a frantic child—nothing more than a Son looking for Father.  Fingers fly across one display after another, flipping through frequency after frequency.  John can’t spot anything on the radar, can’t find anything on the radios, all the while his cocoa is getting cold, chained to the same strand of artificial air he’d left it floating in.

Maybe it’s minutes.  Maybe it’s hours.  Maybe it’s even days, because it’s just too easy to lose track when the sun doesn’t tell him.  However long it takes, Scott calls, sipping out of his own mug.  “Hey, Johnny,” he says, all smiles and Christmas cheer.  “Any news from Dad?  He was supposed to—”

“Dad’s off the grid,” John says, fingers still searching through map after map after map.  “I can’t find him.”

When he looks back on this moment, John will consider all the ways he  _could_ have told Scott and put them up against the one way he  _did_.  There will perhaps be some regret, perhaps some embarrassment that he could have ever lost his cool like that.  There will be many things, but none of them sink in at first.

Because back home on Tracy Island, Scott’s mug  _does_ shatter.  And then Scott shatters too, falling on his knees and praying for some sort of divine intervention.

And John’s mug remains where he left it, but maybe it’s not quite as vacuum tight as they had thought.  Maybe it’s not quite as spill-free as it’s supposed to be, because while John works—and never  _stops_ working, from this point on—drops of once-hot chocolate leak from the seal, suspended in that single, stolen moment of time, before the night turned holy.


	6. O Christmas Tree

Gordon is used to big trees—as used to them as he is to money and power and the invitation to the annual Creighton-Ward Holiday Party.  They’re something that have always been there, huge, sturdy trees that extend two stories, lined with clusters of tiny white lights and decorated with orbs of red, silver, and gold.  He’s always had a bit of a soft spot for trees like this, always admired how they make the cold months feel warm.  

This is not one of those trees.

This tree doesn’t even reach six feet, dotted with different colored lights, as if orange and blue go perfectly with green and gold.  It’s got big, bulky ornaments, not one matching the other, and the tinsel looks like someone sneezed Christmas cheer in the tree’s general direction.  The garland strangles the branches in some places, abandons them in others, and loops in an uneven spiral, right up to the crooked star.

The big trees are in the ballroom, in the dining room, out on the front lawn.  The big trees are where everyone can see them, so Gordon gets the distinct impression that no one is supposed to see this one.

Except this is the right place, he’s sure.  He’s still got the note in his hand to prove it.   _Blue Room, ten minutes_  it says, written across crisp pink card stock.  A man with a bowtie had delivered it on a silver platter beneath a glass of Chardonnay meant just for him.  The room he’s found is most certainly blue—blue walls, blue rugs, classy blue leather making up classy blue couches—and it’s been nine minutes.

When the clock strikes midnight, Penelope walks in, and even though he had known that it was  _her_  card that had been left, he’s still a little bit caught off guard.  How could he not, what with her looking at him like that?  She’s all smiles and sentiment, draped in green velvet and pinned together with snowy white lace.  The party is down the hall, at the opposite side of the mansion, but somehow she brings the music with her.

He clears his throat, pulls his jaw back to where it’s supposed to be.  It seems like there’s a fireplace in every room, so he does a good job of convincing himself that this is the reason he feels warm.  “Lady Penelope,” he says.  “I, uh—I got your note.”

“I see that,” she says, her eyes falling to the card that flips—and  _has been_  flipping—nervously through Gordon’s fingers.  He halts, promptly sticking the card into the inside left pocket of his jacket.  “Thought we deserved a break, you and I.  We’ve been at this for… six hours now? Seven?”

“Eight, I think,” he says, but then he reconsiders.  “No, five—what timezone is this again?”

She laughs.  “I suppose I should know better than to ask a Tracy for the time.”

“You should probably know better than to ask a Tracy for anything,” he tells her, and his laugh is even less than hers was.  “Or maybe just  _this_ Tracy—anyways, I thought this was John’s thing.”

“You what?”

“John,” Gordon says.  “Usually you pull John away from the party, right?  I mean, we’ve been coming to these things for years and you two always disappear around midnight, so I just assumed that you were together.  Not that I”—he clears his throat again—“y’know.  Not that I really noticed.”

He kicks at the rug and stuffs his hands into pockets.  She smiles at him, same as she smiles through a window on a sunny day.  Her footsteps are silent as she draws nearer, so he suspects that she’s stashed her shoes someplace safe and that there’s nothing but stocking under that big, fancy holiday dress.  “Yes,” she says.  “Usually it’s John.”

“Not tonight, though,” he says.

The air between them seems to get heavier and heavier, the closer she gets.  “Not tonight.”

It’s strange, being taller than her, mostly because he’s not.  In every way that counts, Penelope holds herself higher than he does—even tonight, she’s been kissing cheeks and leading conversation and swinging with children on the dance floor.  She’s a pro at being exactly what she needs to be, exactly when she needs to be.  She shifts from one version of herself to another, all in an attempt to raise money for whatever charity she decides to support this year.  At two-hundred dollars a seat—and there are a  _lot_  of seats—there are plenty of charities with their eyes on that check.

But Gordon’s the only one with eyes on her.

There’s one final clearing of his throat—is he coming down with something?  Probably best if he keeps his distance.  “I was, uh, just looking at your tree,” he says, sliding back.  “It sure is… something.”

She turns to look, and it’s so painfully obvious that she sees it differently than he does.  When he catches sight of that smile, suddenly he smells the fresh wintergreen, alive and winding through the air.  He notices the presents just below it, wrapped up in silvers and golds.  He notices that this tree, perhaps, feels even warmer than the big trees he knows so well, and maybe he understands  _why_  after she tells him, “It’s the family tree.  These are all of my childhood ornaments.”

He looks at it with a new appreciation, thinking that maybe orange and blue actually couldgo together.  “There’s a lot of dancers on this tree,” he says.  “What’s up with that?”

“They’re each from The Nutcracker,” she tells him, still watching the tree, as if her dancers are putting on a show that only she can see.  “Each time I played a new role, my parents would get me the ornament to match.”

And this tweaks at his mind, just a little bit.  “Back up,” he says.  “Played a new role?  You dance?”

“ _Danced_ ,” she says.  “Past tense.  And yes, you knew this.”

“I promise you I didn’t.”

“You most certainly did.”

“I’m…  _pretty sure_  that’s the sort of thing I would have remembered.”

“Gordon, you’ve  _been_ to one of my performances,” she tells him, but she seems to catch herself, right at the end of the sentence.  “Actually.  That may have been John.”

“Wow, we are just  _really_ throwing John’s name around tonight, aren’t we?”

“Did you really not know I was a dancer?”  He can almost feel all that time between them—years and years of dinners and benefits and galas.  She watches on, running through the same moments he is, trying to figure out what the odds are that she’s never told him about this thing that had once been so important to her.  “I danced, Gordon,” she says finally, as if making up for lost words.  “I danced for years.”

That’s about the time Gordon realizes he  _is_ coming down with something, and although it might be contagious and it’s almost  _certainly_  fatal, he just can’t keep himself from holding a hand to her.  “Prove it,” he says.

“What?”

“Dance,” he says.  “Present tense.  Dance with me.”

She’s hesitant at first, like she’s about to protest, but it is very rarely that anyone will say  _no_ to Gordon, and apparently the Lady Creighton-Ward is no exception.  She takes his hand and a fever curls its way through his entire body— fingers, shoulders, chest, all the way up to his cheeks and all the way down to his toes.  It’s getting harder to breathe and his heart thumps like it  _knows_ he’s on his last beats.  

Down the hall, a quartet plays, but it’s hard to make out anything more than the steady one-two-three, one-two-three.  That’s fine.  It’s all she needs.  “You’re meant to lead,” she says.

This gets a little bit of a laugh, but it’s not a joke.  Gordon just can’t get his breaths back on track.  “I think we both know that’s not true.”

So she leads.  That’s fine.  Gordon’s not confident enough anyways, but Penelope sure is.  She’s locked on to the rhythm more than she’s locked on to her own pulse.  

They do this for a long time—perhaps even longer than is entirely appropriate for a Creighton-Ward and a Tracy to spend together.  One way or another, her head ends up on his shoulder, and the steps stop pretending to be formal, and he asks her, “The Nutcracker?”

She nods.  “Annual production.  I started as a Child in the Parlor—one of the roles right at the beginning, then I worked my way up from there.”

She smells like peppermint.  Feels like fire.  Gordon pretends to know anything about The Nutcracker.  “Worked your way up to…?”

“Clara, of course.”

“Of course.”

“That’s the girl with the Nutcracker.”

“I  _know_.”

“Just making sure.”  He can feel her laugh roll over his shoulder.  “I played that role for three consecutive years.  I really did love it.  The costume was this  _beautiful_ pink nightgown that flew up when I spun—and there was a lot of spinning.  That was how I learned pointe, actually.”

And maybe it’s because he’s talking to her, or maybe it’s because Gordon notices a fair amount more than he gets credit for, but he hears a distinct asterisk in her words.  “But…?”

She pauses, even missing a step, not entirely sure what to do when she stumbles on stage.  “ _But_ ,” she says, slow, cautious, “sometimes I do wish I could have played the Sugarplum Fairy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.  Oh, do I remember standing backstage, watching the older girls do that solo.  There was just something so…  _gratifying_  about watching them.  Nearly the entire dance is pointe—the epitome of grace, but still so deceivingly strong.  I loved that about the fairies.  About all of dancing, really.”

Graceful, but strong.  So often it’s one or the other—Penelope in a ball gown as she descends a staircase, or Penelope with her hair tied back as she fires her weapon.  “So then how come it’s  _past tense_?  Why didn’t you just stick it out for the sugarplum?” 

They’re barely dancing anymore, stuck in some sort of sway that was once a waltz, but no longer bears any resemblance.  The words are simply  _said_  more than they are truly  _spoken_  and it’s only when she doesn’t answer that he realizes there may be more to that question than either of them were prepared for.

Her hand slides up his back—only slightly, but it’s enough for Gordon to realize that she’s holding on.  “It was unrealistic to continue,” she says.  “The Sugarplum Fairies were all professionals with far more experience than I.  I had responsibilities at home—a duty to my family.  A duty to my country.  A duty to your father, soon after.  Charity events and board meetings and society fees… I would have worked myself to death.”

Gordon’s about to say that she  _still_ works herself to death, but it occurs to him that he has very little room to talk.  “So you gave up one thing for another.”

“I  _wish_ I had given up one thing for another,” she says.  “Instead I gave up one thing for a great deal more.  I was just a dancer, but now I’m a Lady, a hostess, the writer of the checks, the London arm for International Rescue, and I’ve been known to disappear for days at a time.  I adore everything I do—I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t—but sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to be nothing more than a sugarplum fairy.”

It’s been a long day—seven, maybe eight hours.  Penelope has been shifting and shuffling all night long, just trying to fit all of the molds she’s supposed to fill.  It’s no wonder she and John sneak off every year.  It’s no wonder she wishes to be both graceful  _and_ strong.

It’s no wonder she loves that tree so much.

Over her shoulder, his eyes follow garland as it hugs the branches.  The big trees—the ones that everyone sees—those are all made up of plastic, pretty and prim with pipe cleaners to hold each ornament in the perfect place.  This little tree stays between them, and smells like a real, honest-to-god forest.

So there they are, in the room with the tree, dancing their black tie event into eventual nonexistence, and he wonders, for the briefest of moments, why she hadn’t brought John to this spot.

And then he doesn’t care.  “Merry Christmas, Penelope.”

“Happy Christmas, Gordon.”  


	7. The Seven Joys of Mary

Grandma Tracy has seen plenty of Christmases in her time.  There have been good and there have been bad.  Some have been so good that she’s sure she’s remembering a dream, and some have been so bad that they must be an old nightmare.  She remembers Christmas in Vermont, her son racing down the stairs each year to dump his stocking out.  She remembers Kansas, and all those smiles that would greet her after the ride in from the airport.  For her, Christmas comes in places—in times not yet forgotten.  It comes to her in the bay window of her old brownstone, in the great big chair that once sat in the corner of her son’s living room.  It comes to her in moments.

She suspects that Scott is much the same way, remembering Christmas as a series of  _before_ sand  _after_ s.   When he tells the stories about Christmas in Kansas, he’s always talking about his mother—what she would cook, the way she would decorate, the songs she would  _sing_ —beforeshe was no longer there to do any of it.  It is his responsibility, he surely thinks, that his brothers know what Christmas was like beforethey moved to the island—and then beforehe was forced into the role of Santa.  Scott Tracy has a great amount of respect for the Christmases  _before,_ although when he’s happy and honest, Scott will admit that the  _after_ isn’t all that bad either.

Virgil, she thinks, is probably Scott’s opposite, much like how their grandfather was  _her_ opposite way back when.  Christmas comes to him all at once—an experience more than a memory.  It’s all major chords, and scratchy stockings, and fresh hot cocoa on the tongue.  It’s John’s hug after months in orbit, Scott’s laugh after months without.  It’s Gordon singing  _rewritten_ Christmas carols while Alan laughs along.

And Alan  _will_ be laughing along, because Alan always does.  This is the only time of year when everyone is as hopeful as he is—when no one tells him that he’s just a kid or that he needs to think  _realistically_.  Christmas comes to Alan as a wishlist, as a promise, as mistletoe that has yet to prompt a kiss.  He gets all wrapped up in charity galas and children’s benefits, the rest of the world  _finally_ realizing that they, too, can save people, so long as they simply try.  It’s the kind of thing that lifts his spirits—the kind of thing that makes him laugh as hard as Gordon does.

Because once Christmas comes, Gordon is all happiness and peace.  Not in the way he usually is—oh no.  This happiness is  _real_.  This happiness comes without all the jokes or the silliness.  It’s the quiet kind of happy, sparked by a fire in the fireplace, by music in the air, by too much whip cream on a nice warm pumpkin pie.  Christmas comes to him in choruses of Joy to the World and a Happy New Year.  In smiles and laughter.  In cheer, unspoken.

John’s a tricky one to pin down, but Grandma Tracy knows her boys.  It had taken a few years for her to really figure out what it is that Christmas brings for John, but then she’d watch the brothers crowd each Christmas Eve—watched the smile on John’s face as he stepped off the elevator—and eventually she had pieced it together.  Home.  John comes  _home_ for Christmas.

Of course, he’s not the only one.  He’s just the only one who can make the trip.

Kayo and Brains spend their holidays at home too, each of them taking time to wander back into their memories, into what  _home_ had once felt like and what it feels like now.  They arrange their calendars so that their workload is a little heavier at the end of the year—Brains taking on additional projects from Cambridge, Kayo searching for the family she doesn’t want to see.  It’s a mad, frantic search for ways to get  _away,_ until Virgil and Gordon pull Brains upstairs and Scott and Alan stand guard in front of Thunderbird S.

It’s true.  Grandma Tracy has seen plenty of Christmases in her time.  Some Christmases had been hers, some had been her husband’s, and a lot had been Jeff’s.  Most have been happy, and too many have not, but none of them—absolutely  _none_ —fill her heart as much as these seven Christmases do now.


	8. Silent Night

The clock chimes one, and at the center of the following silence sits a father.  Well.  Not really a father.  It’s more of a Man of the House sort of responsibility, except he sits at his father’s desk—drinks his father’s whisky.  Upstairs, his father’s four children sleep soundly in their beds, so perhaps it isn’t such an absurd thought, that he’s supposed to be doing a little bit  _more_.

A little bit more. A  _lot_  more, perhaps.  Sometimes it feels like he’s not doing anything at all—that all of this worry is for naught, if the only thing he ever does is send them back out there.  Day after day, he orders his brothers into Death’s open arms, letting them fend for themselves until they escape, just  _barely_ , and Death leaves a scratch on the back of their necks.  He wonders what kind of scars get left behind—wonders how much of Death’s darkness one brother can take, spindling black swirls that strangle their spines until one final chill creeps up behind them and snaps their necks for good.  He’s seen Death’s dark curls in Virgil plenty of times and he’s starting to see them in Gordon, too.  The day he finds them on Alan’s skin is the day he walks himself into Death’s grasp and  _fights._

But.  He’s not a father.  So he knocks one back for the fathers of the world, and wishes them all a Merry Christmas.

The clock chimes two, and at the center of the following silence sits a son.  Well.  Someone who  _once was_ as son, which is a very different thing indeed.  People tell him he looks like his father, loves like his mother.   He’s a grandson, a godson, and when the lawyers get involved he’s the  _oldest_ son _,_ but he’s never just someone’s son.  Not anymore.

Occasionally he’ll wonder—wonder if Death’s grip on his father had been firm and forgiving, or if it had been more like a card game, the two of them bluffing at the bottom of the ocean until one of them had won the pot.  He’ll wonder if Death is generous enough to let his mother look down on them, or if Death keeps her tied up in those charcoal twists.  The memory of their parents grows weaker as they go down the line, so maybe that makes Scott the  _most_ son of them all.

But.  He’s not a son.  So he knocks one back for the sons of the world and wishes them all a Merry Christmas.

The clock chimes three, and at the center of the following silence sits a ghost.  Well.  That’s not entirely true, now is it?  Ghosts can’t order soldiers to their into battle, ghosts can’t hope for life not yet had, and if ever there has been a tale of a ghost who didn’t first have to meet Death, then Scott has yet to hear it.  

Except it sure does feel that way.  It feels like he lives transparently, hauntingly, like he’s someone who only  _once was_ instead of  _continues to be._ He sometimes convinces himself that he’s no more than a pale shadow, hollow and only halfway here—half dead.  Half alive.  Playing cards with his father’s old friend.  Those trademark black curls have scraped at his neck one too many times, and Scott starts to feel like he’s more Death than not.

But.  He’s not a ghost.  So he knocks one back for the ghosts of the world, and wishes them all a Merry Christmas.

The clock chimes six and at the center of the following silence sleeps a boy who shouldn’t be there. Grandma Tracy is not a father, not a son, and not a ghost quite yet, so the things that keep her up at night are different from the things that keep Scott up.  Perhaps this is why she is so gentle when she shakes him awake.  This is why she’s kind when she tells him the hour, and that he should really go to bed.  She doesn’t know, but she understands, because Scott isn’t the only one who will sometimes find his way to Jeff’s desk.

He stands, sleepy, and she wraps a blanket around his tall shoulders.  She remembers a time when Scott was a prince, laughing as the blankets flowed at his back.  She remembers a time when he would laugh and dance, descending staircases with pipe-cleaner crowns and paperclip jewels.  Virgil would have been his bodyguard, poor John, his royal advisor, responsible for keeping the jester and the swordsman in line.

But.  He is not a prince, and so Grandma Tracy grabs her son’s—now grandson’s—bottle and knocks one back for Scott.  Lord only knows that boy needs himself a Merry Christmas.


	9. Away in a Manger

This is not as fun as he thought it would be.

Don’t get him wrong—it’s exciting.  It’s just not  _as_ exciting as he had thought it would be.  When he had been told that he’d be a big brother, he had expected a little bit…  _more_.  

He crawls now.  That’s pretty cool.  He laughs and smiles, mostly because of Gordon, and that’s pretty cool, too.  Sometimes Gordon will look at him and just think about how strange it is, that there is really a whole new person in his life.  Think about how strange it is, that a person can really be so small, and could one day be so much bigger.  Gordon’s little brother is a million different possibilities, so it’s definitely not  _boring_ , having Alan around.  It’s just not what he thought it would be.

Mostly he just sleeps, and what kind of kid sleeps on Christmas Eve?  Not Gordon, that much is certain. It’s long past his bedtime and he’s out in front of the Christmas tree, partially waiting for Santa, partially watching Alan.  It’s a little-known fact throughout the Tracy household that Alan doesn’t sleep in his crib—he’ll just cry and cry until someone lets him sleep on the floor.  Gordon figures he wouldn’t mind it so much either, if he had as many blankets as Alan does.

Except didn’t he hear somewhere that babies can get hurt if they sleep with too many blankets?  Didn’t he hear somewhere that they can get all tangled up and confused?  It’s probably best that someone’s out here—probably best that someone keeps an eye on him, with all those short, shallow breaths.  Those twitching fingers.  Lips that dream of bottles and pacifiers.  It’s probably best that Gordon’s here, finger in Alan’s fist, the two of them out of bed.

* * *

This is  _exactly_ as fun as he thought it would be.

Which is not at all, just to be clear.  He had anticipated a severe  _lack_ of fun, and he had been absolutely correct in that assumption.  Dad’s at the office, and who the hell even  _knows_ where Scott is—a question, as it just so happens, that both John and Virgil have been asking all night as they drive up and down US-24.  It’s just Gordon and Alan at home, so when Alan had started to cry that his stomach hurt, it had been Gordon who had sat him in front of the toilet and laid a cool washcloth against his neck, listening as he blew sour chunks of the night’s mac n cheese feast.

Alan is still in front of the toilet now, hours later.   The kid never has slept in his bed, but at least he’s got an excuse tonight.  There’s a towel under his head, a glass of water at his back, and he’s all curled up in a way he almost never is. Gordon’s hunched up in the corner where counter meets wall and every time he’s  _just_ about to drift off, Alan will bolt upright and start heaving again.  

This, of course, is met with tears, which doesn’t help the whole  _puking_ situation, and then they’re caught up in this vicious cycle that someone other than Gordon should really be handling.  Gordon hopes that this doesn’t keep them from getting on the plane tomorrow, hopes that they can all still see Grandma for Christmas, because  _god_.  He misses her.  He misses her a lot.

But whatever happens, it’s probably best that someone’s here—probably best that it’s someone who can spare a moment, waiting for the bug to pass, wondering when it’s time to call in reinforcements.  It’s probably best that Gordon’s here, hand on Alan’s clammy forehead, the two of them out of bed.

* * *

It’s not a bad as he remembers.

Being a big brother comes with it’s fair share of ups and downs, and generally the downs feel far steeper than the ups, but it’s really not so bad.  Alan’s starting to think for himself now, which is pretty cool.  He’s starting to get easier to actually  _talk_ to, and that’s pretty cool, too.  All of a sudden Alan’s got opinions on game theory and rocketry and astrophysics—each of which are matters that Gordon doesn’t care about, but  _matters_ all the same.

On the nights when they stay up too late, caught in that awkward in-between of too late to go to sleep and too early to stay up, Alan will fall asleep on the couch.  Sometimes it’s a somewhat conscious decision, the two boys sprawled out on their respective sofas, blankets and pillows and all the necessities, as they look up at the ceiling and mutter in that half-voice, half-grog combination that comes with heavy eyelids and lips that feel buttery.  

Other times, Alan will crash, entirely without warning, and Gordon will be left to drape a blanket over him.  Not that it matters, because Alan rolls of the couch and onto the ground within the hour, and soon he’s mingling with the presents under the tree, wrapped up in too many blankets.

Gordon doesn’t lay next to him, but he thinks about it for just a moment, watches those same shallow breaths, those same twitching fists.   It’s still just a little bit odd, to think about the fact that there is this whole extra human in his life, so it’s probably best that Alan’s here, Gordon wrapped around his little finger, the two of them out of bed.


	10. Let it Snow

The first time EOS ever encounters snow, she’s plowing through the phone of a Mid-Level Intelligence Analyst for the United States Pentagon.  The Analyst had dropped his phone into a pile of the stuff while waiting for a cab.  She learns, in that moment, that snow is black and chunky, that it’s cold enough to contract her processors, that it’s  _wet._

This had been EOS’s  _last_ encounter with snow.

On the ground, anyways.  She’s encountered it plenty of times from the safety of Thunderbird Five, mostly because it turns out to be one of the more complicated subjects she’s ever had to learn.  Oh sure, she understands snowflakes and their limitless fractals.  She perfectly comprehends the hexagonal structure of bonding molecules—understands what happens when these molecules grow too heavy and begin to fall to the ground.  Snow makes sense, from a strictly mathematical, physical, meteorological point of view, but from every other angle, snow doesn’t make sense.

Why is it, for example, that when she searches for the way snow interacts with humans, she is met with images of smiling children who roll around in it, juxtaposed to horrible black and blue images of the term  _frostbite?_ How is it possible for fallen, frozen water to be turned into a weapon, utilized in the brutal winter pastime that is a snowball fight?  “John?” she says.

“Yes, EOS.”

“Does snow hurt?”

He answers with silence at first, but then it occurs to her that he is probably just thinking.  John thinks much slower than she does.  “It can,” he says.  “If left exposed to it for too long.”

“Then why send your children out in it?  For what reason would you risk overexposure?  Why allow them to weaponize?”

This prompts a swift turn of the head, and by extension of weightlessness, torso and legs as well.  “Weaponize?  What do you—EOS, are you talking about snowball fights?”

“I am.”

And then, a smile.  “They aren’t weaponizing,” John says.  “They’re having fun.  The snowball dissolves on impact—I used to play with my brothers all the time.  They thought it was fun.”

“Did you think it was fun?”

“Sometimes,” he says.  “Until Gordon started throwing snow down everyone’s shirts.”

“Is that against the rules?” she wants to know.

“There are no rules,” John answers.  “That’s part of what makes it so fun.”

* * *

The idea of a snow day is one that exists on both ends of a dichotomy.  There seems to be a heavy favor of snow days in children ages seven to twenty, but there exists a steady decline from twenty to twenty-five, during which most humans seem to develop a venomous hatred towards them.  Newscasters smile as they read off school closings, appealing to the children, but then they cut to the morning’s traffic, whereupon someone in a tie tells everyone to be careful.

Occasionally there will be articles about roofs that fall inwards, about trees that come crashing down, about the latest save from International Rescue—all of it caused by  _snow_.  “John?”

“Yes, EOS.”

“Does snow destroy?”

There’s that silence again, longer than the last by .63 seconds.  She senses that he is more careful when he answers.  “It can,” he says.  “But that’s what I’m here for.  So that when it does destroy, International Rescue can respond as instantly as possible.”

“Does it know?” she asks, but she realizes that she may be unclear and adjusts her language accordingly.  “Does the snow know that it is destroying?”

This is the longest silence of them all.  “The snow doesn’t know anything,” he tells her.  “It’s not equipped with the power to choose.”

“I am equipped with the power to choose.”

“Yes you are,” he says.

“What if I were to choose incorrectly?”

And then, a smile.  “That’s what I’m here for.”

* * *

The thing about snow is that it’s white—this is something that EOS hadn’t known, since  _her_ snow had been black and bruised and oily.  It hadn’t been until she made the trip up to Thunderbird Five that she’d learned snow is white and, actually, snow is mostly clear when in its crystallized form.  

She’s not quite sure why, but she enjoys looking at pictures of the actual snowflakes.  Something about the six-sided geometricity sets satisfaction along her sentience and it really is quite humbling to know that the atmosphere can produce something with the same laser-guided precision that she can, except the atmosphere doesn’t need lasers.

And with such variety as well.  EOS can produce an alarming number of patterns, but that number is most definitely  _finite,_ and there is no extending it.  She is not so sure that the same applies to snowflakes, however, as snowflakes seem to break the rules far more often than they should be able to.  The climb and crystalize through seemingly infinite possibilities, sometimes not even adhering to their own law of six sides.  Occasionally there are three—even rarer: twelve.  Sometimes they abandon the concept of  _sides_ altogether and exist as cylinders or circles or cones.  “John?”

“Yes, EOS.”

“Am I like snow?”

This silence is far shorter than the rest having to do with this matter.  “You can be,” he says.  “Do you want to be?”

And then, that answer she so rarely gives.  “I do not know.”

He smiles.  “That’s okay,” he says.  “One day you will.”


	11. What Child is This

Virgil doesn’t take risks—not this close to the holidays.  Thunderbird Two is designed to endure the roughest conditions, but its pilot won’t fly.  Not tonight.  Not with the snow coming down as hard as it is.  Not when they’re so far from home and so close to Christmas.  It’s just not gonna happen.

So, soup kitchen it is.  The volunteers insist that a warm meal is the least they can do to repay the boys and furthermore, that the holidays bring in so much food they need all the help they can get in eating everything before it expires.  Fresh turkey sounds  _miles_ better than the freeze-dried packets of powder they keep aboard Thunderbird Two, so Virgil, Gordon, and Alan are happy to offer up their services.  

It’s the basement of some church, nothing more than some dank, dusty, midwinter-stained mudroom of the Lord’s palace.  The tables are full this week and according to one of the women behind the counter, they’re full most weeks, even though they normally run out of food after the first sixty people.  This night, however, is the exception.  Everyone eats like kings, kept warm by the heat of their neighbor as they make that big room feel small.  The benches along each table are at capacity, leaving some children to sit on the tables and others to sit along the walls.  There’s a tree in the corner of the room, spotted with bright white and blue and topped with a bow.  Beneath it lies a pile of presents, which a group of little ones conspire about when they think no one can hear.

Alan joins in on the whispers because as a kid himself, he is still a trusted ally, although one boy eyes him like maybe he’s starting to switch over to the dark side.  Even so, he learns their names, learns their stories.  He laughs when they tell jokes, answers when they ask questions, and he helps one of the girls get a second plate when she’s sure she’s not supposed to.  They come here every week, one says.  They’re glad they get to see their friends.  They have to get here real early, and they can’t take the bus, because everyone takes the bus and then there’s a line.  You have to be at the front of the line, says another, otherwise you have to wait until next time.

That church basement, with high ceilings and tiled floors, feels too empty for Alan.

At the opposite side of the room, Virgil kneels at the end of a table, not wanting to take up a seat.  He pokes and prods at peaches and cream with a thin, plastic fork, but the majority of his interest is stolen by the people he shares a meal with.  One man had played AA hockey, on track to sign with Toronto until he was injured on the ice.  Another man plans to be a singer, and just needs to catch his break.  A fair few are scholars, unable to find work in their field, and one is even currently enrolled, trying to get her Masters.  This is the only time she can study, she says.  She doesn’t have power in her apartment right now and anyway, she can’t focus when she gets too hungry.

That church basement, florescent lit with a few flickering bulbs, feels too dark for Virgil.

It’s Gordon, surprisingly, who does not speak to anyone.  Alan had expected him to be playing tag with the kids in the first hour.  Virgil had expected him to table-hop, chatting up a storm with whoever he could get to talk.  These are the things Gordon usually does, after all, so both Alan and Virgil are more than a little shocked to spot him without a plate, down a hallway, completely isolated except for the two people who stand before him.

It’s Anne and Frankie, says a woman behind the counter.  They’re here every week, first to come and last to leave.  Been coming for months.  Gordon doesn’t even make it through his first plate before he leaves it abandoned.

The child, Frankie, is no older than a year and he won’t stop crying.  A mother, Anne, bounces him, up and down, up and down, shushing softly against his splotched skin.  Gordon’s squid senses kick in and he can’t help but investigate.  “Sorry,” he prefaces, cautious in his footing.  “International Rescue—is everything alright?”

Anne keeps bouncing Frankie and looks at Gordon like he’s the last person she wants to see.  “Sorry,” she says.  “He gets fussy.  I’ll quiet him down.”

“No,” Gordon says, too quick.  “No, that’s alright.  It’s just, um, d’you need any help with anything?”

Frankie’s still crying.  Anne keeps shushing.   “Thank you,” she says.  “But no thank you.  This just happens, he’ll calm down soon.  Again, sorry, he’s just a little too hungry to eat.”

That church basement, at the bottom of the world, feels like Hell for Gordon.

Gordon’s nose twists, the corners of his mouth turn downwards, and his jaw sets.  Entire chunks of his life have been dedicated to learning about metabolism and digestion and dietary restrictions.  He’s been on every high school, college, gold medal diet, so he  _knows_ what Frankie’s feeling and he  _knows_ that Frankie shouldn’t be feeling it.  “Apple juice,” Gordon says.  “Apple juice will do the trick.  He’ll drink it like water, but the sugar will help his appetite.”

Anne looks at him, then her eyes shift just to his left.  Gordon follows her gaze, as he’s trained to do, and sees Virgil at his back with a bottle of apple juice in his hand.  He nudges Gordon with his elbow, nods towards little Frankie, who still cries into a handful of slobbery fingers.  “Lady behind the counter says this happens every week,” Virgil says.  “Figured you could use this.”

“Yeah,” Gordon replies, but truth be told, he’s not listening.  He’s already taking careful steps.  It’s instinct for him, reaching out to the screaming child, soothing those who need help.  Gordon pulls Frankie to him and Anne seems almost relieved to let him go.  Almost.  “Careful,” she says.  “He can squirm.”

And he can scream too, but Gordon doesn’t much mind.  He simply coos and smiles at the boy, telling the toddler that the two of them have got this under control, but Frankie’s got to work with him, alright?

It’s Alan, surprising both Gordon and Frankie, who holds the juice.  It’s Alan, the youngest of five, who holds the lip of the bottle up to Frankie’s mouth and helps him to drink.  The child drinks from the too-big bottle, in that uncoordinated, pouty-lipped way that all children do, and the silence that falls over the hallways brings peace to the night.

The boys stay with Anne and Frankie for the rest of the night.  They help close up, washing down tables, passing out leftovers, wrapping up extra juice for the families with little ones.  They’ll cover the cost.  Frankie is in better spirits as he trails behind Alan,  _drying_ the tables that he wets down—crucial responsibility that it is.

The boys retire to Two for the night, and travel back in the morning.  The first thing Gordon does the next day is make a meeting with the financial advisors. Virgil and Alan go with him, Virgil the muscle and Alan the cute face.  The advisors don’t stand a chance against three-fifths of the Tracy boys, so from this point on, a small fortune goes to that basement just below God, and little Frankie gets all the apple juice he needs.


	12. Angels We Have Heard On High

There are, approximately, twelve-hundred pounds of rock above them.

Of course, this number is just an approximation because the only way Scott can know for sure is if John tells him, and John isn’t there to tell him.  When the rock had come tumbling down, so too had the comms, leaving Scott alone, hundreds of meters below the surface of the Earth, with the thirteen miners he’s supposed to be saving.

Scott sits beside a man with whom he does not share a language.  The man holds, in his coal-streaked, calloused hands, a rose-colored rosary.  The beads are smooth, tied together with loops of brass, and Scott Tracy has seen enough, heard enough,  _said_ enough prayers to know one when he comes across it.  No matter the language, the prayers he hears are often pleas, bargains, and all the various other forms in which fear usually tends to come.

The man doesn’t kneel, which strikes Scott as odd at first.  He sits atop stone, hunched over, the red rosary dangling between the knees he uses to support his elbows.  Shoulders sag, and the words come out as gruff, coarse things that have been twisted and mangled by the years spent underground.  The cross is kissed once, then tucked into the man’s palm for safekeeping, which is where it stays as each bead is threaded through shaking fingertips.  

It’s exhaustion, Scott soon realizes, that keeps the man from kneeling and a very specific exhaustion at that.  It’s the kind that comes with working to the point of death, that comes with a desperate desire to see your family again and the pitting realization that this may never happen.  It’s the hunched over, shaky hands, say a prayer kind of exhaustion that Scott’s met on too many occasions, so soon Scott too bows his head, counts the beads on the rosary, and joins the man in prayer.

Their words don’t line up, but their hearts do.  Their hopes do.  Meters below the Earth, language doesn’t matter.  If God hears any, God hears all.

It’s nothing terribly fancy—no robes, no candles, and their only crucifix sits in the stained hands of a buried worker—but this is where the two men pray.  Then there are three.  Five, then ten, until all fourteen voices chime through the cavernous space.  They speak in unison, their own words bleeding through those that have been around for centuries.  For a moment, Scott swears he hears a fifteenth—swears that there’s an angel in their midst, but perhaps it is just another echo.

Or perhaps it’s John.

“Thunderbird One.”  No camera.  Just his voice.  “Come in, Thunderbird One.”

“I hear you, John,” Scott says.  Around them, the prayer continues, the desperate pleas of a desperate people, who don’t know they’ve just been saved.  “I hear you.”


	13. The Carol of the Bells

When they were younger, they used to go caroling.  It would start with Virgil, asking when their local carol group would begin their practices—usually near Thanksgiving, when everyone started to feel festive enough to sing the same songs week after week, year after year.  His mother would take him to the first rehearsal of the year and then, as young boys tend to do, the remaining members of the Tracy household would notice their mother’s absence and would demand that it not happen again.  

The next rehearsal would then consist of an additional four Tracys.

Scott enjoyed it because it gave him a way to spend his Wednesday evenings.  John liked it because he was allowed to stand next to his mother.  Virgil enjoyed the rehearsals, spent with musicians like himself, while Gordon enjoyed the performance, and the smiles that were left on the faces of those they sang to.  Then, of course, there was Alan, who only liked it because his brothers did.

They worked hard at their caroling, proud and puffed up in their pounds of cloth—hats and coats and, for little Alan, three pairs of mittens because he liked to eat the snow.  Their cheeks soon turned rosy and their noses shined red, puffs of white smoke leaving chapped lips.  Each boy would quietly mock every new doorbell, trying their very hardest to get the very loudest laugh out of one another.  Gordon, most often, would win this game, until the door opened and they were rushed into singing with elbow nudges and shuffled stances.

They don’t do much caroling anymore.

The reasons for this are unclear.  It is not, for example, because they no longer have a mother they wish to sing with.  It is not because they spend their lives working for an absent father.  It is not because caroling now requires a trip to the mainland, or because they no longer have a church to rehearse in.  There is no singular reason for stopping, just like there was no singular moment when they decided to stop.  They simply do not carol anymore, and none of them even remember to ask why.

Instead, that time between Thanksgiving and Christmas is spent across the world, songless, as they see to it that everyone makes it home for the holidays.

Tonight it’s an earthquake, just along the Pacific coast.  Thankfully it’s less devastating than the hit from two months ago, but any cleanup efforts have been shaken off schedule.  International Rescue is here to see that the efforts are put back  _on_ schedule, and that the bridges are back up by Christmas Eve.  

This is when the bell chimes twelve—a church at the center of the madness with a steeple that still stands tall.  The bell is two centuries old and rings through the night until each chime hits all five boys.

Over the comms, Gordon mocks the sound.

The others laugh and join in, absurdity climbing with each attempt.  They can only hope that no one else shares the frequency, that for all the secrecy that comes with International Rescue, this remains another thing that stays just between them.  Across scratchy speakers, various versions of  _bong_  and  _bring_  sound and soon Virgil starts to hum.

It’s the humming that does it.  It’s the humming that halts the laughter. Because soon it’s Gordon humming too, happy for the smile.  Soon it’s Scott humming away disaster and John humming his way straight into his mother’s memory.  And then, there’s Alan, who hums because his brothers do, and all he ever wants to be is a Tracy.  

When they were younger, they used to go caroling.  This doesn’t happen anymore, but for the first time in years, all five of the brothers remember to ask why.


	14. Good King Wenceslas

Scott’s had plenty of firsts.  His first steps have been captured on video, masterfully named Scott_First_Steps.mp6 on the family hard drive and listed just below Scott_First_Laugh.mp6.  His first word had been airplane—“ah-pahn”—due to the fact that Scott had spent his first year surrounded by the things.  His first day of school had been handled bravely, his first friendship handled kindly.  There was his first kiss, his first dance, his first vote, and he’ll never forget his first flight.

This is Scott’s first rescue, and it’s rapidly becoming just as unforgettable.

There’s been a little bit of a problem.  That’s not to say that the Thunderbird machines aren’t fully operational—oh no.  The Thunderbirds are  _great_.  The Thunderbirds are the best crafts Scott’s ever seen in his goddamn life, and Scott’s old enough to have seen and flown plenty of crafts.  Still.  There had been problems.

Not his father—no, god, never his father.  His father had been the one to crash land atop a particularly deep bank of snow.  His father is the reason the landing hadn’t been as bad as it  _could_ have been.  His father is the reason Scott is able to walk away with only a mild laceration across his left side, and not anything worse.  No, this is not his father’s fault.  It’s not anyone’s fault.

Still.  His side hurts pretty bad.

“How you holding up, Scott?”

The voice isn’t as loud as it should be, considering the fact that his father stands mere inches away, but it catches on the wind, razor-sharp snowflakes shredding the words away before they get a chance to reach Scott. “Fine,” he says back, louder than he’s sure he can.  The action sends shockwaves through his muscle, clamping down on the cut as if his body is trying to stitch itself up.  

And see, that’s not his father’s fault either.  Scott’s  _said_ he’s fine, so it’s pretty stupid to wait for his father’s call on his bluff.  Just like it was pretty stupid to fly Thunderbird One into a blizzard, insisting that it was built for this sort of thing.  Just like it was pretty stupid not to have food and water aboard the craft, in case of emergencies—kinks.  Just kinks.  They’ll know better next time.

Scott had been feeling fine during the march into town.  A little bit of a walk, sure, but he’d been all patched up.  All good to go.  They had trudged through the snow just fine, intent on doing what they came here to do—save people.

Scott wonders what a guy has to do to get saved around here.

They’re walking back now, mission completed, even if not entirely successful. The wind comes head on, and it’s impossible for Scott to look up.  There’s a dark red spot eating through his blue uniform where the gauze can no longer hold anything back.  He keeps pressure on it—keeps pressure on it.  He’s got to keep pressure on it.  

The words sting at his mind, a fresher wound than even the one on his side.  He sees, in his snowed-out mind’s eye, the image of a woman, battered and beaten, and if he had only been a little  _faster,_ if he had only complained a little  _less_ about his side, if he had only kept  _more_ pressure on it.  She may still be alive.  That’s Scott’s fault.  That’s always going to be Scott’s fault.

The march back to Thunderbird One is a lot harder than the march from.

“Actually,” he says, probably too quiet, but he can’t tell anymore.  “I think I’m just… gonna…”

It’s a steady fall into snow that’s too deep and this, finally, catches his father’s attention.  There might be a call of Scott’s name, might be a question about what he’s doing and why he didn’t say something earlier.  There might be blood red against snow white and there might be cold where there’s supposed to be warmth.  Scott doesn’t know.  Scott isn’t sure.  All he knows is that he’s  _tired_  and that he’s  _cold_ and that it isn’t his father’s fault.  “I can’t do this, Dad,” he says.  “Daddy"—he shakes his head, stumbles over his own words—“Dad, I can’t do it.”

Scott Tracy has had a lot of firsts and although it is not his first time admitting defeat, it’s the first time it really seems to matter.  “It’s okay, Scott,” says his father.  “It’s okay.  It’s not your fault.  Can you stand?”

Scott doesn’t answer at first—can’t, maybe.  He sees blood on his hands and no matter what he does, he keeps bleeding into the fresh white snow.  “I can’t… why is the wind so loud?”

“Scott, we can’t stay here.  We’ll freeze.”

Yeah.  And who’s fault is that?

“The wind,” Scott says again.  “I  _hate_ the wind.  And this snow is too heavy.”

He feels his father’s arms wrap around his chest.  His side screams—or maybe he does.  He can’t tell.  The wind is too loud to hear anything.  “Up you go,” says his father, right in his ear.”

“The wind is too loud.  The snow is—”

“Behind me, Scott,” says his father.  “Follow in my footsteps, come on.”

Scott falls onto his father’s back, too tall.  Too much muscle.  The wind is too loud.  In front of him, his father walks on and Scott does as he’s told.  In his father’s steps he trod, where the snow doesn’t feel so heavy, stands exhausted behind his father’s back, where the wind isn’t quite as loud.  He follows his father right into Thunderbird One, which holds such a warmth that Scott swears he’s never going to leave.

Scott Tracy’s first mission is also Scott Tracy’s first failure.  Maybe it’s his own fault, maybe it’s his father’s.  Maybe it’s no one’s.  Kinks.  Just kinks.  Following in his father’s footsteps, Scott vows to make sure it doesn’t happen again.  “We won’t tell your brothers about this, huh?” says his father, pulling out new bandages.

“No sir,” Scott replies.

“Hang in there, Scotty.  Let’s get you home.”


	15. Deck the Halls

Virgil is in charge of decorations.  But he needs a little help.

It’s a big responsibility and, more importantly, he’s got quite an act to follow.  Up until this year, decorations had been John’s job and the walls had been covered in precisely cut paper snowflakes, neat red and green chains that stretched twenty feet long, and five little wreaths that were made up of paper cutouts of each brother’s hand.

This year, it’s Virgil, and there’s a lot of pressure, especially since he’s been forbidden from using Mom’s scissors.  Everyone knows that prime snowflake cutting can  _only_ be done with Mom’s scissors, so he decides that he is in need of assistance.  “ _Psst_.”

His father looks down at him because there aren’t supposed to be any little boys in his study at this hour, but this  _psst_  most definitely belongs to a little boy.  “And just  _what_ can I do for you—didn’t Mom put you to bed an hour ago?”

Virgil, unlike the rest of his brothers, remains cool under the pressure.  “I can’t make snowflakes,” he says, very seriously, because Dad’s study is a place where one must be very serious.  “So I am detergenting.”

This elicits a curious look from the father, spinning his chair away from the collections of screens that sit atop his desk.  “Detergenting isn’t a word, Virgil,” he tells the boy, trying to piece together this post-bedtime crisis.

“Sure it is,” Virgil says, chest puffed up and eyebrows furrowed.  He looks too old that way.  “You say it on the phone all the time.  When you’re talking to the guys at work.”

“Delegating?” asks his father.  “Do you mean that you’re  _delegating_ the snowflakes to me?”

Hesitation.  He thinks it through.  He’s more like John in that way than he is like Scott, which is the first clue as to why he’s delegating snowflake duty in the first place.  “Does that mean I’m making you do it?” Virgil says, little more than a whisper.

This earns a laugh.  “I suppose it does.  Fine.  You may delegate snowflake duty to me, but do it in the morning, when it’s not past bedtime.”

He starts to spin back to his monitors, but Virgil catches the chair.  “Oh no, no, no.  You see Dad, this is”—he locks eyes with his father—“ _very_.  Important.”

Jeff Tracy’s study has seen some tough deals in its day—and even tougher businessmen—but none of them quite measure up to the desperate charge of a young boy who has been made responsible for Christmas cheer.  “Is that so?”

“If I don’t decorate as good as John did, then Christmas is simply ruined,” Virgil explains, not an ounce of jest in his tone.  “And  _how_  am I supposed to decorate as good as John did if I can’t even use Mom’s scissors for snowflakes?”

“And that’s where I come in?”

“Exactly.  See,” Virgil lets the chair go, but his words hang on.  Cool.  Reasonable.  Everything Jeff Tracy respects in a good businessman, mainly because it is everything that he struggles to be.  Virgil’s brown eyes aren’t the only thing that remind Jeff of his own father.  “This just can’t wait until morning.  There’s too much work to do.  How can I  _sleep_?  Did Mom think about that when she gave me decorating duty?   _No._ ”

“So let me get this straight.”  He turns back around, away from the projections of the stocks and the newscaster announcing that Tracy Industries may be the most investable new company on the market.  “You’re not going to do any sleeping until this house is ready for Santa?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

There’s a sigh.  “And you can’t ask your brothers for help?”

Virgil shakes his head, as if the politics of brotherhood are just too complex to explain and if he doesn’t understand them by now, it’s a lost cause.  “If I ask them for help, they’ll do it all,” Virgil tells him.  “And then they’ll keep  _reminding_ me that they did it all.”

Virgil doesn’t have enough faith in his big brothers, but Jeff concedes his point.  There’s a nod, then another spin of the chair before the screens are off.  Tracy Industries will simply have to wait, because Santa never does.  “Alright then.  Let’s go find Mom’s scissors.”


	16. Carol of the Drum

Jeff Tracy is a fine businessman.

This does not, in any way, mean that he is a good man, a kind man, or even a particularly well-liked man.  Make no mistake, Tracy Industries pays well and the benefits could bring even Tiny Tim back to full health, but there’s one day—the  _same_ day every year—in which Jeff Tracy is the very  _finest_ businessman, and therefore every employee at the Tracy Industries Kansas City office debates whether or not they will quit their job.

The annual budget is due on December twenty-forth.  No one leaves the office until a comprehensive, detailed, impeccably precise plan for the new year sits—signed and notarized—atop Jeff Tracy’s desk by midnight on the twenty-third.

So it’s Christmas Eve Eve.  Floor-to-ceiling windows of Tracy Industries’ largest boardroom show the city skyline, silhouetted against a grey, wintertime backdrop.  If he squints, Virgil can pretend he’s Rudolph Hunting, spotting all of the blinking red dots in the sky and trying to figure out which one is actually Santa, out for a test run.

This grows boring far too quickly, so Virgil returns to the world of checks and investments and stock markets, focusing more on his coloring book than anything the men in the room have to say.  John and Gordon both have swim lessons tonight, which means that Scott and Virgil are stuck in the two seats just to their father’s right—two seats that everyone _else_ in the room would very muchlike to have—occupied only by their tablets and their coloring books and their deteriorating will to continue on with such uninterrupted tedium.  

Virgil’s happy to color for a little while longer, but he keeps getting distracted by that sound—the sound of his father’s fingertips hitting mahogany.  _Brum-pum-pum-pum.  Brum-pum-pum-pum._ An impatient rhythm that comes with a definitive beat, but a messy execution.  Virgil keeps getting lost in it.  Caught up in it.  It reminds him of his mother’s humming and he wonders how much music they could make if they were all together.

But it doesn’t matter.  “… and with your approval Mr. Tracy, that would mark the end of the fourth quarter.”

The drumming stops two strokes in, his father’s hand caught somewhere in the middle, frozen into a claw.  Scott sits up a little bit taller, so Virgil follows, tucking his tie back into his jacket where it belongs.  “Okay,” says their father, gruff.  Tired.  “Someone get me a pen.”

And finally they can all go home.

* * *

Jeff Tracy is a firm businessman.

This is the reputation he has earned over the past few months, working long nights, arriving for early mornings.  He does not accept sloppiness, does not accept tardiness, and certainly does not accept anyone who tells him that he is at all unable to do something.  This is why, when told that the annual budget would not be ready by December twenty-fourth, he had rejected it, vehemently, and had informed everyone that  _he_  would be working through the holidays to pass the budget and had loudly proclaimed that anyone who wished to remain employed would join him.

He’d lost three staff members with those words alone.

Midnight is fast approaching.  It’s nearly Christmas Eve in New York City and they are no closer to passing the budget than they were at the start of the day.  Scott’s here because Scott’s always at Dad’s side nowadays.  Virgil’s here, suit and tie, because Scott convinced him that it was time he be brought into all the whispers he and Dad exchange late at night. This had left John to babysit the other two or, more accurately, had left Gordon to babysit Alan, because John doesn’t come out of his room much these days.

His father still taps his fingers.   _Brum-pum-pum-pum.  Brum-pum-pum-pum._ It’s quicker than he remembers, belonging to hands that have somehow gotten old without Virgil’s noticing.  He thinks, instinctively, of his mother’s humming and he wonders how much music they could make if they were all together.

But it doesn’t matter.  “Mr. Tracy,” says a man.  Virgil recognizes the gentleman, barely, seeing him more as a memory than a person.  “I know it’s the holidays, but can I perhaps offer… well you see, I’m afraid you are funneling too much money into your charity efforts.”

_Brum-pum-pum-pum._

__Brum-pum-pum-pum._   
_

“The charity funds stay as they are.”

“Jeff.  Some of this spending doesn’t even make sense,” says the man.  “Hell, I’m your CFO and I don’t even know where the money’s going—Salvation Army and Red Cross, sure, but International Rescue?  I’ve never even heard of them.”

The tapping becomes louder, faster, and is accompanied by the steady  _tap, tap, tap_  of a leather shoe against hardwood.  They’re just past midnight now.  Christmas Eve.  The budget is due.

Scott is the one who responds next.  “They’re just starting up,” he says.  “Huge potential, but they need a little more help than the other guys.”

The CFO glares at Scott like he doesn’t even deserve a  _seat_  at this table, much less a  _word_.  Scott just glares back like he was born at this table and he’s not going to let anyone forget it.  “It’s a bad move,” says the CFO.

“My salary, then.”  The drumming stops, but it’s not a halt.  No.  It’s a swift glissando into greying hair—an exhausted surrender from an unyielding march.  “If we cut my salary, would that cover the charity funds?” 

And finally they can all go home.

* * *

Jeff Tracy is no longer a businessman.

Virgil attends most of the meetings nowadays, because he’s cool-tempered and understands the cruciality of a deadline.  He keeps Scott on reserve, for when he needs someone especially charming or especially angry lo lead the company into a battle, which is why he’s in New York in the first place.  

After all, it’s not a proper budget proposal without a hot-headed Tracy at the end of the table, staring down the same dubious CFO.  It’s not a proper budget proposal without fingers— _Scott’s_ fingers, now—leaving their demanding  _Brum-pum-pum-pum_ on the tabletop.  When Virgil hears it, he thinks of his father and by extension, his mother.  He wonders what kind of music they would have made had they all been together just a little bit longer.

But it doesn’t matter.  That’s long past.  Their father was a fine businessman, but also a bit of a Scrooge, which is why Scott’s first act as CEO had been to move the deadline back by three days.  December twentieth.  The budget has been passed for days now.

They aren’t sure what else they’re supposed to do on Christmas Eve Eve, which might be why Virgil finds his way to the biggest boardroom.  Which might be why he finds Scott there, too.

There are more Rudolphs in New York than there are in Kansas.  The only light that shines through these floor-to-ceiling windows is that from the city surrounding them—golden and warm, just like bourbon in Scott’s glass.  Virgil makes himself his own drink, has a seat at Scott’s right hand, then holds his glass up.  “To Dad.”

Scott holds his own glass.  “To Mom.”

“And to the rest of us sorry assholes.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

And so they tip back their glasses.  They drink.  And they realize, together, that they may never go home again.


	17. Silver and Gold

“John Tracy.”

Her voice shines like silver silk, all of the day’s ribbons finally unwrapping and unwinding, letting her shoulders fall, letting her breaths expand, and letting every minute feature of her carefully calculated expression slip into an easy, effortless smile.  “Dare I point out that you are currently standing beneath mistletoe?”

She’s slung in the doorway, in a way that a Lady should never be, but she holds, in her lacily gloved hands, a bottle of wine that only a Lady could afford.  Everything about her in that moment is contradictory, so when John looks up to find white berries and green leaves tied with a neat, crimson bow, he knows he can laugh.  This is Penelope, after all.  "So this was your plan all along,” he says.  “Thirteen  _long_ years of friendship, all leading up to this very night when you lure me beneath the mistletoe and confess your true feelings for me?”

“The only true feeling I have about  _you,_ John Tracy _,_  is that you are an arse.”

“Careful,” he says with a smile.  “Your British is showing.”

“Oh, shut up.”

She says each syllable distinctly, with that double T sound in the middle.   _Shut-tup_.  John laughs. “What would you do if anyone heard you talking like that?” he says.  “The Prime Minister, I think, would be especially disappointed.”

“The Prime Minister can—kindly—go jump from a very high cliff and plummet towards a swamp wherein, if the fall doesn’t kill him, the alligators most certainly will.”  

“There are very few places in the world that have  _both_ swamps and cliffs.”

“Good.  So then you know exactly where they are and you can join the Prime Minister.” She pulls herself upright, holds up her big blue ballgown with her free hand, and descends the staircase just as the grandfather clock in her grand foyer starts on it’s twelve stately chimes.  “Do get me away from this party.  I haven’t uttered a single word of significance in six hours.”

“Boathouse?” he asks, holding an arm out to her.

She takes it.  “Boathouse,” she confirms.  “Where there isn’t a hint of mistletoe.”

Not a hint of heat, either, but John doesn’t say so.  He simply escorts her through the snow, the pair of them stealthily slipping past the ballroom windows as they sneak into the same boathouse that has been their escape since that very first holiday party together.  John complains about the cold, just as he does every year, and she tells him to stop being such a crybaby.  He provides her with his jacket anyways, draping it over bare shoulders, and the two of them drink until they feel warm again.

About halfway through the bottle—most of which has been consumed by Penelope—she pulls her hair down, insisting that it’s too tight, and it’s too unwieldy, and that she doesn’t even like this style in the first place.  Blonde curls fall over his dark jacket,  reminding him of long, thoughtless nights spent in elegant libraries with her glasses slipping down her nose.  “Do you ever wonder,” she says, “what Christmas would feel like without all the decorations?”

He follows her gaze through a little crossbarred window.  The glass is warped with age, twisting all of the little lights into swirling white snowflakes.  “I guess it wouldn’t feel too much like Christmas,” he says.

“Wouldn’t it, though?”  Her words come with an icy puff in the air, but her voice is as warm as molten gold.  “Christmas is Christmas, even without all the…  _stuff_.”

“I think there’s an entire Charlie Brown special devoted to that very idea.”

“Be serious.”

“Are you under the impression that I would joke about Charlie Brown?” he asks.  “Because I assure you I would not.”

“ _John_.”

“I don’t know,” he admits.  “I don’t know why Christmas feels like Christmas.”

She takes another sip from the bottle, neatly and primly, because even if her hair is down and her dress is stained with snow and dirt, she’s still a Lady.  “I hope it’s not because of the decorations,” she says.  “I hope it’s not because we dress everything up.  Christmas is still Christmas, even without all the parties and the music and the Prime Ministers, right?”

John looks around, scanning the dead, dark boathouse that the two of them have turned into a tradition.  “Well,” he says.  “Does it still feel like Christmas when we sneak back here?”

There’s no music.  No lights.  No trees, no decorations, no presents and not a scrap of mistletoe.  “This is where it feels  _most_ like Christmas.”

“Then I guess that’s our answer.”

She laughs, bubblier than usual and John suspects that this is due, in large part, to all the bubbles she’s been drinking.  “I don’t want to go back to that party,” she says.

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Do you know everything, John?”

His eyes are stuck on her for just a moment too long, watching her as she watches him back.  For just a moment, they’re kids again, meeting for the first time, before they remember that they’ve been friends for too long.  “Merry Christmas, Penelope.”

“Careful,” she says.  “Your American is showing.”


	18. Gabriel's Message

He’s going to be a scientist.  He’s going to be a musician.  He’s going to be a doctor, a firefighter, or a Colonel like his father.  It’s the possibilities that feel heaviest—it’s the  _maybe_ s that feel most certain.  

And so, on this their third Christmas together, she hands her husband a bag, blue stuffed with pink paper.  She’s sure that he’ll catch her—that he’ll notice the lack of red and green—but perhaps she should have known better.  Jeff Tracy has always been a big picture kind of person.

She wonders if he’ll be the same.

Well, she doesn’t actually know if it’s a  _he_ , hence the blue and pink wrappings, but she’s pretty sure.  She doesn’t know what it is—a feeling.  Just a feeling., but a  _strong_ one.  As strong as the one telling her that he’ll be kind, or that he’ll be generous, or that he’ll be happy.

Jeff pulls the tissue out of the bag, the morning eating away at him.  He’s the late riser to her early and she wonders—just as she wonders about everything else—which of these two traits will be passed on.  

Next out of the bag is the blanket, small and blue, airplanes spotted throughout a cloudless sky.  Jeff holds it up, blinking the sleep from his eyes as if to get a better look.  As if to force the confusion from his mind.  A blanket?  Why would she have given him a blanket?  She’s not sure he’ll ever figure it out until the blanket unfolds, and a tiny pacifier falls into his lap.

One second.

Two.

Then the blanket falls.  “Lucille.  What is this?”

She can’t stop grinning.  “What do you think it is?”

He knows what it is, which is why he can’t help smiling either.  He feels them too—the possibilities.  The hundreds upon thousands upon millions of different paths.  The world is at their child’s feet.  Maybe one day he’ll own it, or maybe one day he’ll save it.  The possibilities stretch out before her, years and years of  _maybe_ s.  She can’t wait to see which ones he chooses.  Can’t wait to see how this blessing plays out.


	19. We Three Kings

Alan was told that he would see the aurora borealis.

Alan was told that it would be a quick save—that the weather station would be back online in mere hours and that, if he volunteered to pilot a pod for this mission, then he would get a chance to observe the northern lights in their prime seasonal beauty.  He was told that this would be a fun trip, somewhere in Northern Canada where the land starts to dissolve into the North Atlantic and the sky starts to dissolve into strips of neon green.

The skies are cloudy.  This is not at all fun.

He feels short of breath, as torn apart as the pod just beside him.  Instead of looking up towards blazing green ribbons, Alan clutches at his chest and notices that the image has been ripped from the sky, edited into the negative space below his feet—red ribbons against white snow.  How badly is he hurt?  He has to get back to Virgil.

He’s all turned around, doesn’t have any sense of which way is north because  _he’s_ north.  He pulls up his compass, letting the pink light shine against falling snow and howling wind, but the damn thing just spins and spins.  With each flip of the needle, so too does Alan’s heart turn, and when he looks to the stars for help he’s met with no answer.  The stars shine imprisoned behind clouds, just like the aurora.  “Thunderbird Five,” he breathes.  “I can’t—I can’t  _navigate_.  The stars—”

Something is definitely wrong.  Bruised, cracked, broken, his chest hadn’t survived when the pod decided to roll.  A cold blade stabs at him each time he moves, slicing its way down his entire side, up his entire neck.  “ _John_.”

“I hear you, Thunderbird Three.”  The reply is the largest relief Alan’s ever known.  “Loud and clear.  What is your situation?”

This, Alan knows, is John’s  _save-people_ voice, which probably means that Alan has somehow ended up as the victim.  How that happened, he isn’t quite sure.  “My chest,” Alan tells him.  “I can’t see the stars… my compass is… John, my  _chest_.”

“Can you breathe?” John says, urgent.  Formal.  “Can you walk?”

“Breathing seems okay for now,” Alan reports.  “Walking might be less okay.”

There’s a pause.  John’s thinking.  “I need you to try.  Can you do that?  You’re half a mile away from the weather station.  Virgil and Gordon will meet you there.  They’ll have standard medical supplies and it’ll be easier for a helicopter to find you there if something goes south.”

Alan tries to laugh, but even this sends his side splitting.  Maybe that’s why there’s blood in the snow.  “Don’t you know, Johnny?” he says.  “Up here, everything goes south.”

“Stay with me, okay?” John says.  “Just follow my instruction.”

* * *

Gordon’s world is either too bright or far, far too dark.

He can’t exactly tell, and that’s the part that most scares him.  There’s a flash burned into the backs of his eyelids, white-hot and blinding, but it’s plastered over a deep black  _nothing_.  

Except there’s not nothing.  Gordon can feel the cold, feel the frozen dampness of his suit.  He can hear the wind snapping past his ears, smell the stinging smoke of Jack Frost’s hottest cigar.  There’s definitely  _something_ out there, but no matter how many times he blinks, he’s met only with nothingness.  “John,” he calls out.  “John I can’t see _—shit_  I can’t see.”

“Calm down, Thunderbird Four.”

“John, I can’t—why can’t I  _see_ anything?”

“Thunderbird Four, I need you to calm—”

“Do you not understand what I’m telling you?   _When I open my eyes there’s nothing there_.  Shit, John.  Shit, shit, shit.  I can’t see—”

“ _Gordon._ ”  John gets this voice from their father.  It’s that same sense of authority that sends chaos into calm, which might be exactly the thing that makes John so damn good at his job.  “Check for pain near your eyes.  Do you feel anything at all?”

With this direct order, Gordon is now able to calm down enough to think things through.  He performs a check—based entirely on feeling—throughout his entire body.  Legs, torso, head, just like he was taught.  “I’m a little—shit, John.  I’m gonna have some bruises, but my eyes… I don’t know.  I think I hit my head.”

“You always hit your head,” John tells him.  “Does this one feel any different than the others?”

“I can’t—no.  I mean, I don’t think so,” Gordon checks himself again, compares the bumps he feels now to all the pain he’s felt before.  Fear blooms in his throat and he chokes on it before he’s able to say anything else.  “I don’t know, John.  Oh god, I don’t know.  It doesn’t—It’s not—why can’t I  _see_?”

“Listen to me,” John commands.  “No more talking.  Something caused your pod to leave flight, and I suspect it was probably the same electrical storm that caused Alan to roll his pod.  There’s a good chance this blindness is temporary, caused by your proximity to a lightning strike.”

“Alan rolled his pod?  Is he—?”

“I’ve got him on course for the weather station, which is exactly where you’re going, too.  You’re the farthest out, so it’ll be a little bit of a walk, but I’ve already told Virgil and Alan to meet you there.”

Gordon laughs, but it’s really more of a sob, falling from frozen lips.  “I can’t  _see_.”

“You’ve said that,” John tells him.  “I need you to trust me and just follow my lead.”

* * *

Virgil has no bruised ribs.  He can see just fine.  And yet he is still frantic.

Because that’s what hurts Virgil the most, knowing that his brothers are out there somewhere and that, somehow, it’s probably his fault.  This mission was supposed to be easy—was supposed to take a few  _hours._ Tops.  God, he’d even had to do some convincing to get Alan to come.  “What’s their status?” Virgil asks.

John’s reply is quick, because he’s alternating time with the other two.  “Let me worry about them.  You need to get to warmth.  Your suit doesn’t resist the same temperatures that theirs do.”

“That’s not a goddamn answer, John.”

“And you’re not moving any faster, Virgil.”

“I don’t know where I’m going.  My compass is—”

“Yes I know,” says John.  “Alan reported the same thing.  You’re all standing right above the magnetic north pole. Just keep heading in the direction I told you and you should be there soon.”

John’s not kidding when he says soon.  Not long after the call, Virgil can see light in the distance.  His footsteps feel heavier as he gets closer, like a dream in which the door only gets farther the more he walks, so he starts to run as best he can—tries to catch up with it before he loses everything again.  He’s already abandoned his mission.  Abandoned his ‘bird.  He’s not going to abandon his brothers, too.

He’s the last one there, and thank god because he isn’t sure what he would have done if he’d been stuck waiting for them.  Usually this is Scott’s deal.  Usually Virgil is all calm and cool, trusting his brothers to get the job done.  Except blindness and bruised ribs have a way of sparking anxious hearts and tapping feet.  

He’s hit, instantly, with a rush of warmth.  John had been right.  His suit really wasn’t meant to endure such an extreme—not for as long as it had, anyways—but there’s nothing that seems less important at the moment.  The first person he sees falls victim to Virgil’s relentless line of questioning until he learns that Alan had been given painkillers, and that someone’s been distracting Gordon with questions about weather currents over the Pacific Ocean, and that a helicopter has already been called.

John calls again, checking in for one final time.  “What’s your status?”

It’s a cloudy, stormy night, up in those dissolving parts of Canada, but Virgil takes a moment to look at John—really look at him.  Alan doesn’t get to see the aurora borealis, but there might have been a star to navigate by, regardless.  “We’re good for now,“ he says, with something that might resemble a smile.  “Thanks, John.”


	20. Twas in the Moon of Wintertime

Rarely is there a full moon on Christmas, but this year is one of the few.  Only problem is that Alan isn’t at home to see it.  Truth be told, he hasn’t been home in years, maybe even since the last full moon on Christmas.  It’s just so easy, putting it off one day at a time, telling Scott that maybe next time he’ll come back.  Maybe next time, when someone can man the moon base or when there’s not a shower scheduled to come in.  Alan finally understands all those years without John—all those years with presents left under the tree, labeled to John from all of his brothers, from Kayo and Brains and MAX.  From Grandma, once upon a time.  It makes  _sense_.

Because the thing about Earth is that it’s  _heavy_.  Alan had never realized how heavy it was until he had been forced to return—six times the weight he’s grown accustomed to.  He understands why John, back before the atrophy took its course and the weightlessness started to grind his bones, had found an entire world,  _outside_ of their world.

Alan hasn’t been home for Christmas in a very long time.  He’s not sure when he’ll be home next.

“We miss you down here,” Scott tells him, same as every year.  He settles on the couch, eating the cookies left for Santa, once again filling that role that he’d used to fill for Alan.  “The kids ask about you all the time.”

“I talk to the kids every day,” Alan says.

“Yeah,” Scott admits.  He takes a sip of Santa’s milk.  “Still.  Must be lonely up there.”

“Remember when we used to say the same thing to John?”

Scott smiles.  “Remember how much you missed him?”

Alan laughs, hangs his head over the console upon which Scott’s figure is projected.  Both brothers wear a smile, but both know that there’s nothing worth laughing about.  Alan’s Christmas carols ring throughout empty hallways, drowning out the silence that always seems to crop up these days.  He doesn’t know how this happened.  He wishes he knew how this happened.

Their already halted conversation screeches to an impossibly more finite end when Alan’s controls start beeping at him.  “Well,” he says.  “It’s meteor season.  Looks like I’m about to get hit again.  I’d better—”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Scott.  “Save the world.  You always do.”

There’s a full moon back at home, but Alan sees the full moon every day.  “Hey Scott,” he says.  Scott’s hand hovers over the end call button, but his eyes flick up at Alan.  “Maybe next time.”

Scott nods, like he actually believes it.  “Yeah.  Maybe next time.  Merry Christmas, Alan.”


	21. Let There Be Peace On Earth

The first time Scott ever learns that family is a blessing, he is serving the pudding at the local soup kitchen.  It’s a very big responsibility for a very little boy, but he handles it with finesse as well as a great deal of pride.  He’s all dimples and charm, in that special way that only young boys can be, and his enthusiastic calls of “Merry Christmas!” bring about smiles on the faces of those who visit.

When the night is almost over and all have received their meals, Scott is finally allowed to nab a bowl—payment, for a long night’s work.  His mother holds on to his free hand, but as the pair of them walk to the table his mother stops midstride and Scott, in all his puddingless glory, comes face to face with a young girl whose hair is so blonde, it could be white.  

She’s a little taller than him, but not by much, and she holds on to the hand of the man who Scott’s mother has stopped to talk to.  “The pudding’s my favorite,” she tells him, eyeing his bowl.  “I only get it when we come here.”

Scott’s eyebrows fold.  “This isn’t even the best pudding,” he tells her, urgently.  “Doesn’t your mom buy the good stuff at home?”

The girl shrugs.  “I don’t have a mom,” she says.

The adults finish talking with a few nods and a few smiles.  As they part ways, Scott holds just a little bit tighter to his mother’s hand, trying very hard not to think about what he might be like without her.

* * *

The first time John ever learns that education is a blessing, he’s standing in line at school.  It’s a Saturday, which makes this a particularly unique situation, and explains why John holds on so very tightly to his mother’s hand.  He’s never been a very big fan of unique situations—of  _any_ situation in which he is any less than a hundred percent sure of what is going to happen.  

He carries, on his slim shoulders, a backpack stuffed to the zipper with brand new school supplies.  This just so happens to be John’s favorite thing to carry on his shoulders so, new situation or not, John’s spirits are high.  That is, until he and his mother reach the table at the front of the line, volunteers in purple tshirts asking him for the bag he carries.  “You didn’t tell me I’d have to give it all  _away_ ,” John tells his mother.

This is false.  John’s mother had told him multiple times, but regardless, she had suspected that this might happen.  “Don’t you want to help, Johnny?”

“What do they need help for?” John asks, hugging the bag now.  He shoots a cold glance at the volunteers, but they all just laugh at him.  “They can buy their  _own_ school supplies.”

His mother squats down to his level, holding a hand on each arm.  She smiles at him too, but then again, she’s always smiling at him.  “That may be true,” she says, “but there are plenty of kids just like you who can’t buy their own supplies.  That’s why we’re here.“

“Like, they don’t have  _any_?  None at all?”

“Not unless we do our part to help them,” she says.

Well.  As John’s second favorite thing in the world, he can’t imagine a life without the smell of new notebooks, without the point of a new crayon, without the fine, squared off feeling of an unused eraser.  He tries to imagine doing math without a pencil or writing without fresh white paper, but everything just falls flat and John suddenly feels panicked for all the kids out there who don’t have a new backpack every year.  There’s a frantic hurry as John pushes the pack onto the table, even offering up some of his crayons at home—although he’s sure to point out that they’re a little worse for wear.

The volunteers laugh.  His mother laughs.  John doesn’t know why, but he laughs too.

* * *

The first time Virgil ever learns that money is a blessing, he’s holding his father’s hand as they finish up their shopping for the season.  Santa stands on the street corner, ringing a bell as people pass him by, and Virgil wonders what the man is doing here when he’s obviously got a workshop to attend to.

They stop just a few feet away, Virgil’s ear catching on the tritones of the bell as each chime echoes off the snow.  His father pulls a ten out of his wallet, then hands it to Virgil.  “Go ahead and stuff that into Santa’s red bucket.”

Virgil spreads the bill out between gloved fingers, examining it like he expects it to be something more than what meets the eye.  “Why does Santa need money?” Virgil asks.  “He’s magic.”

His father chuckles, huffs of white air slipping through his lips.  “It’s not for Santa, son,” he tells the boy.  “Santa’s just going to get it to people who need it.”

“Doesn’t everyone have money?” Virgil wonders.

“Afraid not.”

As far as Virgil can tell, money buys anything and everything.  It buys all the best food, all the coolest clothes, and even all the greatest games.  Money is the key to everything that Virgil wants and he can’t imagine what he would have without it, so he walks over to Santa, smiles, then folds the bill up until it fits into the slot at the top.

Santa winks at him, then starts off on his standard  _ho, ho, ho_ s.

* * *

The first time Gordon ever learns that happiness is a blessing, he’s volunteering at a hospital.  He’s not old enough to do anything he finds substantial, but the nurses say that his help is invaluable around the holidays and Virgil was going to drag him here one way or another.  It’s just easier to come willingly.  

Problem is that he’s been assigned to help in pediatrics tonight.  He hates pediatrics—spends most of the time hanging out in a supply closet with a candy bar from the vending machine and a nice distracting book.  Of course, the nurses find him within the hour and he has to resume his duties.

This patient’s name is Clara, and she’s been in and out for months.  Asthmatic, which can be hard on the younger ones since their lungs are already so small, and generally miserable.  More than once, Gordon has seen her with a tube down her throat, a needle in her arm, a worried mother and father alternating nights when they stay with her.  It’s rough, and the hospital doesn’t get cable, so the worst part of it all might be that Clara is stuck watching the same three episodes of Sesame Street on repeat.  

She’s fussy tonight, but Mom’s so tired that the tiny cries don’t wake her up.  It’s real bad for Clara to cry, because then she gets herself all worked up and she can’t breathe, so Gordon’s quick in his investigation for the source of the tears.  He soon discovers that the infamous Mr. Bear has made a break for it, squeezing himself between the bars on the crib and jumping to his assumed death.  Easy fix.  Gordon doesn’t need a nurse for this one.

When he hands the bear back to the little girl, the crying slows, the ceases.  She doesn’t have any tubes tonight.  No needles.  Overall she’s in good shape, so Gordon leans on the side of the crib and watches her stuff the bear’s ear into her mouth.  “Y’know kid,” he tells her.  “Generally people like to try and stay  _out_ of hospitals.  Cut your folks some slack, here.”

She looks up at him with brown eyes, her smile revealing a single white tooth.  Gordon can’t help but smile back at her.

* * *

The first time Alan ever learns that life is a blessing, he stands, suit and tie, above a coffin about to be lowered.  It’s empty, of course, because only the lucky ones get to bury a body, and Alan just doesn’t make that list.  

The ground is even colder than the air, dusted with a thin coat of snow.  It’s harder than it should be to bury him, but when all is said and done, Alan looks at the two graves—one fresh and one long grown over—wondering what it must be like to have parents.  Doesn’t matter.  It’s pretty unlikely that he’ll ever know now.

He vows, from that moment on, that no one he encounters will ever have to bury their parent or that if they do, they will at least have a body to bury.  It’s a promise he makes to the universe and to all the people in it, even if he has to carry it through all on his own.  He doesn’t, though.  He suspects that his brothers are making that very same vow right now, or at least hopes.  Hopes so desperately that he’s not the only one.

“We gotta save people,” he says to whoever will listen.

It’s Scott who answers, standing nearest to him.  “Yeah,” he says.  “We will.”

Alan wipes at his nose—the cold.  Just the cold, making his nose run.  The five of them file into a single limousine, leaving tire tracks in the snow as they leave, and each of them then decides that someday, somehow, there will once again be peace on Earth.


End file.
